Acorn

High in an oak tree, a squirrel plucked an acorn off a twig. The twig shook and let out a sharp cry. “How dare you!” shouted the tree. Its voice was the wind passing through the leaves. The sound was breathy and full of power.

“I’m sorry?” said the squirrel.

“That was my acorn!” whistled the tree.

“Mine now,” said the squirrel.

“And what gives you the right,” thundered the tree, “to eat of my body? I gave you no permission.”

The squirrel dug a firm tooth into the skin of the acorn. “It’s lunchtime.”

“Give it back!” roared the tree.

“No,” said the squirrel.

“Now!” The leaves fluttered, shimmering in the summer light, the wind dry, the tree creaking. The squirrel remained on the branch and continued to eat the acorn. “Now!” repeated the tree.

The squirrel did not reply. He continued to munch on the oak nut, and ignored the tree. When he was done with it he dropped the pieces he would not eat and scampered up the trunk for more. “Where are you going?” the tree shouted after him. “Stop it! Stop it at once!”

“No,” said the squirrel.

Such exchanges are common in nature. Squirrels are terrible conversationalists and trees have no defense.

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"All the while I have been forgetting the third of my reasons for remaining so faithful a citizen of the Federation, despite all the lascivious inducements from expatriates to follow them beyond the seas, and all the surly suggestions from patriots that I succumb. It is for the reason which grows out of my medieval but unashamed taste for the bizarre and indelicate, my congenital weakness for comedy of the grosser varieties. The United States, to my eye, is incomparably the greatest show on earth."